


Shadow

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg talks with Meg Masters</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow

_Don’t use my name. How many times do I have to tell you?_

“Your name’s the only name I’ve got,” she said. Sam was down there, watching her change, waiting to walk into her trap because heroes were always predictable like that. “You getting tired yet?”

 _No._

She knew Meg Masters lied because the meat-suit fit closer than ever. Sometimes, it almost felt like hers, like it had always been hers.

~*~

 _Is that true?_

“Come on, Sam. There’s no need to be nasty.”

 _Hey! I’m talking to you—is that true, what you said, about loyalty—about love._

“I think we both know how you really feel about me.”

 _Who did you lose? If that’s what you’re doing all these things for, it doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t—_

“You and I can still have a little dirty fun,” she said, touching Sam.

 _Don’t—don’t, don’t do this—people who love, they don’t—_

And something hurt inside her head as Meg Masters pounded against her, flung whatever strength she had left against her, and that was unexpected because Meg was weak, because Meg was almost gone, because Meg had given up when she’d realize she was locked up inside her head and nobody but a demon could hear her. She figured that’s why she hadn’t noticed how the brothers were playing with her—because of course Sam would have had a knife—they were brothers, their father’s sons—and then physical pain seared her skin first, before punishing her bones as her head collided against the hard floor from the blunt force of Sam bashing his head against hers.

 _Sam! Sam! Don’t hurt me, don’t—_

Meg Masters tried to use her lips, her tongue, her voice box, but the pain was too much as the demons hooked their claws into her ankles and threw her—threw them both—out the window under a rain of glass. Meg screamed, but no way was she going to let the Winchesters hear it. And Meg, sharp as the shards of glass carving her flesh, heavy and hard as the gravity ramming this frail body against pavement, hurt just as much.

She didn’t move, body splayed against the ground, because Meg was still screaming and shouting and pounding against her, rattling her bones like she could shake loose if she just pushed hard enough, like she could dig her way out even now.

Once the boys left, once they thought she was dead, she climbed to her feet. She brushed off bits of glass and flakes of drying blood. The pain echoed through her, hurting even though nothing touched her. It whispered of hell. It was the first real pain she had felt since she crawled from the pit.

At least Meg Masters wasn’t screaming anymore. She had forgotten such silence existed, locked inside a box of flesh and blood that wasn’t broken.

 _Hey_ .

She needed to catch up with them. Needed to take out John Winchester, thorn in Azazel’s side. Thorn in everybody’s side. Goddamn holier-than-thou righteous man.

 _What about our deal?_

“What deal? You said you wouldn’t deal with someone like me.” She laughed.

 _If I had dug my way out, you would have been forced to leave. I would have had my body back. But what about now?_

“Well, if you did manage to get rid of me—and you know, nobody can get rid of me that easy so I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you—you’d die relatively quickly, for a human at least. Internal bleeding is a messy way to go. Everything just gets everywhere.”

 _Then why am I still here if my body’s walking around dead?_

“I’m the only thing keeping you alive. Other people throw you out windows like you’re trash, but I stitch you back together again.”

 _You did this to me._

“I just rented you. I didn’t kill you. Blame the Winchesters and their noble intentions for that.”

 _I hate you for all the things you’ve done to me, for all the things you’ve made me do, for all the people you’ve made me kill._

“Share that with the hell-spawn class on Sunday morning. You’ll fit right in.”

 _I hate you for taking me away from my family. For making me die alone._

“Baby, you’re never alone, as long as you’re with me.” She said it smiling, and she found a dirty window to wink at before continuing onwards. 

 _I’ll never forgive you._

She watched the impala squeal away without moving. Azazel would never forgive her if she failed. Her father would never forgive her if she didn’t prove herself to be a daughter worthy of the energy he had used to forge her in his image. Alistair would never forgive her if she slunk back to hell, and she’d probably hook herself right back up on his rack just to prove to him that, fuck you, there wasn’t anything to forgive. And if that wasn’t enough, if once she had given all she had, bled up whatever was left of her—though sometimes she wondered if there really was anything left, anything left at all—the pit had no bottom, had no end, just a darkness that got blacker, a coldness that numbed beyond life, beyond breath, beyond memory until there would be no Meg Masters or father or faith. Hell would stitch her back together into something else, something more suitable, more practical, something that did what it was told, like a good soldier, a good daughter—but she was already all of those things without the help of hell. She flexed her fingers against her thighs, sucked down a breath of air. “You think that stings? Baby, I wouldn’t ever want your forgiveness.”


End file.
